by Judy Blume
“How have I put you in the middle?”
“By moving him in next door to me in the first place. And now, asking me to watch him. I don’t want to watch him. I don’t want to know any more about him than I already do.”
“What do you know?”
“Nothing. Very little. He seems like a nice man. That’s all.”
“I hear he’s already been in your hot tub,” B.B. said softly, hoping that Margo would deny it and ask where she had gotten such a foolish idea.
“It was nothing,” Margo said.
So, it was true. B.B. did not respond.
“Look,” Margo continued, after a moment of silence, “I’m sorry I can’t help you out. Try to understand.”
“Of course,” B.B. said coldly. “See you in Jazzercise.” She put the phone back on the hook. God, you couldn’t trust anyone, could you? She wondered if they’d worn bathing suits.
9
MARGO FOUND HERSELF THINKING about Andrew Broder, found herself standing on her deck watching for his truck or hoping she might run into him on the Mall. If she did she’d say, Oh, hello . . . would you like to get a cup of coffee? And he’d say, Sounds good to me, and they would walk over to Pearl’s and sit at the outdoor cafe and order espressos. She would be wearing her heathery pink poncho and he would say, I like the way you look in that. It brings out the color in your cheeks.
Fool, she told herself. Find another fantasy.
She wished that B.B. hadn’t called, asking her to keep an eye on Andrew. When she’d told B.B. to stop putting her in the middle, B.B. had been pissed. Margo had heard it in her voice.
On Monday morning, at the office, Margo finished up the preliminary sketches for the cluster housing project and decided to drop them at B.B.’s office on her way to lunch. She told Barbara, the receptionist at Benson and Gould, she’d be back by one-thirty and if Michael phoned from Vail she had information for him on those Trocal windows. Then, as an afterthought, she picked up the phone on Barbara’s desk and called home. The phone rang twice before Mrs. Herrera answered. “Mrs. Margo Sampson’s residence . . .”
“Hello, Mrs. Herrera . . . it’s me,” Margo said.
Mrs. Herrera had been cleaning for Margo since Margo had come to town. She cleaned for B.B. on Tuesdays and Fridays and for another friend on Wednesdays. Today, Mrs. Herrera complained that with Stuart and Michelle back the house was a mess and it was going to take her at least two extra hours to clean it properly and was Margo willing to pay?
Margo told Mrs. Herrera that she was.
“Because I don’t do this for fun,” Mrs. Herrera said.
“I understand,” Margo said.
“And last week I left you a list and you didn’t buy one thing on it. How am I supposed to clean if you don’t buy the supplies?”
“I’m sorry . . . I forgot.”
“Mrs. B.B. buys two of everything so we never run out.”
“You’ll have all the supplies you need next week. I promise.”
Margo hung up the phone and smiled at Barbara, who relished the weekly conversations with Mrs. Herrera. “I shouldn’t have called home,” Margo said.
“She would have called here if you hadn’t.”
“That’s true.” Margo slung her leather bag over her shoulder, waved at Barbara, and left.
Benson and Gould’s offices were in a handsome red brick building on Chestnut, converted in 1973 from an old warehouse by Jeffrey Gould, before he discovered the Bahamas. When Michael Benson and Margo had been lovers they used to stay at the office until Barbara and Jeffrey had gone, lock the doors, and make love on the floor. Then Margo would go home and prepare dinner for her children. It had been a pleasant arrangement while it lasted. Twice married and twice divorced, with two sets of children, Michael was terrified of personal responsibilities, a trait that sometimes carried over into his professional life. By the time Margo introduced him to her children her feelings for him had fizzled anyway, so she was not hurt at his suggestion that they find other lovers and become friends.
Outside, the temperature was still in the eighties and Margo would not have minded if the weather stayed this way all year long. She walked a few blocks to Spruce, to B.B.’s office.
“She’s already left for lunch,” Miranda said, when Margo asked for B.B. “She’s at The James, with clients. She should be back in an hour.”
“I’ll just leave these with you,” Margo said, placing the folder on Miranda’s desk.
“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you dropped in and gave them to her yourself. She’d probably welcome the interruption. These clients are bo-ring.” Miranda fanned the air in front of her face to make her point. Miranda had come to work for B.B. fresh out of C.U. two years ago and now she dressed like B.B., wore her hair like B.B., and was even beginning to sound like B.B.
“I’m in a hurry myself,” Margo said. “So just give them to her when she gets back.”
“Okay,” Miranda said. “Sure.”
Margo walked from B.B.’s office to the Mall. Before she’d arrived in Boulder her idea of a Mall was Saks, Bonwit’s, and Bloomingdale’s strung out around a huge concrete parking area, either in New Jersey or Long Island, and swamped with career shoppers, like her sister, Bethany. In Boulder, which had once been a supply center for the mining towns in the mountains, the Mall was an area of renovated buildings, some dating back to the late 1800s, housing shops, restaurants, and galleries. The streets were cobblestone and closed to traffic. Some of the old-timers complained that it was too tourist oriented, but Margo disagreed. It provided a downtown shopping area for the locals and made it fun to work in the neighborhood.
She went into the New York Deli, ordered two pastrami sandwiches on rye—you had to specify here or you might get it on whole wheat or, worse yet, white bread—and two iced coffees to go. Then she waited outside, lifting her face to the sun. When her order was ready she crossed the Mall and walked to the corner, to Clare’s gallery. The gallery represented Margo’s most creative renovation in Boulder. She had left as much of the original bank building intact as she could, including the tellers’ windows, the winding staircase, and the balcony, which had become a sculpture gallery.
Clare had come to Boulder like Margo, following her divorce from Robin Carleton-Robbins, a West Texas banker who had run off to the Amazon or someplace like that—Clare wasn’t sure, it might have been the Nile—with one of his tellers. She was very young, Clare said, and smelled like doughnuts. Clare had come to Boulder with her daughter, Puffin, a classmate of Margo’s children, and her millions, some of which she used to open her gallery, one of the few in town that was not a front for drug traffic. Strictly legitimate, Clare would say, proudly. I don’t wash anybody’s money. And she had never eaten a doughnut again and swore she never would.
At first Margo found it odd that a woman whose husband had run off with a bank teller would choose a bank building for her gallery. One day during the construction phase Margo had mentioned that to Clare and Clare had laughed her big, booming laugh and had replied, “It is odd, isn’t it?”
Margo pushed open the heavy glass door to the gallery. “Lunch . . .” she announced.
“Be right with you,” Clare called. “Just let me wash up. Have a look at the balcony while you’re waiting.”
Clare’s fall show had opened on Labor Day weekend. It featured artists of the Southwest. The walls were hung with R. C. Gormans, Doug Wests, and Celia Ramseys. Margo went through the gallery to the vault, which served as Clare’s office space. She dropped the lunch bag on Clare’s desk, then ran upstairs where Clare’s assistant, Joe, was setting up a barnyard exhibit of carved wooden animals. “They’re wonderful,” Margo said, eyeing a brown pig complete with teeth. “How much does that one go for?”
“Ninety-five,” Joe said, “but i
f you’re interested . . .”
“I know . . .” Margo said.
Clare would be leaving for Europe day after tomorrow. She went every September, after the fall show opened, and it was always a lonely time in Margo’s life. The last time she and Clare had had a good talk had been on Margo’s fortieth birthday. Clare had taken her to dinner at John’s French Restaurant, had presented her with the silk robe, and had ordered champagne. Over dessert, a decadent hazelnut cake, Margo had confessed that what she wanted most for her fortieth birthday was a steady man. “One who’ll be there in the morning,” she’d said, feeling giddy from the champagne.
“I wouldn’t mind one myself,” Clare said, “but they’re not easy to find and if we should happen to find them, then we won’t be this close anymore.”
“That’s bullshit,” Margo said, draining her champagne glass. “Why should we have to choose between a man and a friend?”
“I don’t know. I suppose because it’s hard to keep that kind of intimacy going with more than one person at a time. While I was married to Robin I never had friends . . . real friends . . . did you?”
“I had friends,” Margo said, “but I never confided in them until my marriage fell apart.”
“You see?”
“But it doesn’t have to be that way.” Margo poured herself another glass of champagne. She knew she was going to be sick, but she didn’t care.
CLARE CAME INTO HER OFFICE and stretched out on the sofa. Margo handed her a sandwich and said, “I’m crazy about that pig . . . the one with the teeth.”
“He’s yours.”
“I want to buy him.”
“Consider it done.”
“For a fair price.”
“Of course.”
“Michelle’s always campaigning for a pet. Maybe this will satisfy her.”
Clare laughed.
“I’m going to miss you,” Margo said. “Who’s going to listen to me while you’re gone? Who’s going to laugh at my jokes?”
“I’ll be back in three weeks.”
“Three weeks is a long time.”
“I keep telling you . . . you should come with me.”
“I will, one of these days.”
“Keep in touch with B.B.,” Clare said. “I’m worried about her . . . about how she’s handling having her ex in town.”
“She’ll adjust,” Margo said. “She’ll have to.”
Clare sighed. “That’s what life is, isn’t it . . . a series of adjustments.”
“Did I tell you, I met him?”
“No . . . what’s he like?”
“Friendly . . . seems nice enough . . .”
“Who knows, maybe he and B.B. will get back together.”
“I doubt it,” Margo said.
“Why? Didn’t you ever think of getting back together with Freddy?”
“In the beginning, sure . . . during the hard times. I thought about how easy life could be if I didn’t fight it. But I wasn’t ready to give up. And I wasn’t sure he’d want me back . . .”
“They all do . . . eventually.”
“I don’t think so. Anyway, I’m glad I held out. I would never have forgiven myself for running back just because it was safe. And I haven’t been tempted in years. Besides, he’s married, so I don’t have to think about it.” She balled up her sandwich bag and tossed it across the room into Clare’s trash basket.
“I think about it sometimes,” Clare said.
“About what?”
“About going back to Robin. We’ve been separated for four years and we’re no closer to a divorce now than we were when he ran off with the Doughnut. It’s hard for the wealthy to divorce,” Clare said, laughing into her iced coffee. “There’s all that money to divvy up, all that property . . . it could take years . . . maybe it’s not worth it.” She lowered her voice. “He’s back.”
“Robin?”
“Yes . . . he’s in Dallas.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know until yesterday. He called. He wants to see me.”
“What about the Doughnut?”
“That’s over. It only lasted six months. He’s been living in Cuernavaca, alone. A mid-life crisis, he says.”
“God,” Margo said, “I am so sick of men and their mid-life crises. What about us? When do we get ours?”
“I suspect we’ve already had them.”
“Are you going to see him?”
“I don’t know. I’ll think about it while I’m in Paris.”
“Don’t do anything you’re going to regret,” Margo said.
Clare laughed. “If I didn’t do anything I was going to regret I’d never do anything . . . and you know it.”
“I want you to be happy,” Margo said. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“You sound like a mother.”
“I am a mother.”
“I know,” Clare said, “but not mine.”
Margo left the gallery at one-fifteen and was rushing back to the office when someone called her name. She stopped. It was Andrew Broder, standing in front of the Boulder Bookstore, loaded down with packages. “Hello,” he said. “How are you?”
“Okay . . . how about you?”
“I’ve become a shopper . . . as you can see. Do you have time for a cup of coffee?”
“I’m on my way back to the office,” she told him. “But I’d love to, some other time.”
“It’s a deal,” he said, shifting the packages in his arms.
Fantasy into reality, she thought, walking away. Too bad it’s too warm for my heathery pink poncho. She started to laugh. She was still laughing when she got back to her office.
10
B.B. DID NOT GET OUT OF BED on the following Sunday morning. She lay under the covers in her rumpled nightgown, sleeping fitfully, floating in and out of dreams. She had told herself that she needed to catch up on her sleep, but she knew that she wasn’t getting out of bed because there was no reason to, since Sara had gone off with Andrew for the day. She had watched from her bedroom window as Sara had raced out of the house at nine, carrying her Monopoly game. She had watched as they had driven off together in Andrew’s ugly truck. It was a warm, sunny, early September day and as she dozed B.B. heard children’s voices laughing. But they were not the voices of her children.
At five, jolted awake by some inner alarm, B.B. jumped up and out of bed, took a shower, and dressed carefully so that when Sara came home she would be ready to take her out to dinner. She was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping tomato juice and reading the Sunday Camera, when Andrew pulled into the driveway. He and Sara got out of the truck and walked to the back door together.
B.B. hugged Sara and said, “Hi, Sweetie . . . I missed you. All set for dinner at Rudi’s?” She ignored Andrew.
“I already ate,” Sara said. “Daddy made hamburgers and french fries.”
“You already had dinner?” B.B. asked.
“Yes, so I’m not hungry . . . maybe just some ice cream later.” Sara stood on tiptoe and kissed Andrew. “Bye, Dad . . . see you next week.”
“The reason I wanted her back at six,” B.B. said to Andrew, speaking slowly and softly, trying not to show the anger she was feeling, “was so I could take her out to dinner.”
“I didn’t know,” Andrew said.
“Sara should have told you,” B.B. said.
“But Mom . . .” Sara said, “you didn’t say we were going out tonight.”
“You should have known,” B.B. said. “We always go to Rudi’s on Sunday nights, don’t we?”
“But Mom . . .”
“I don’t want to hear another word about it,” she said, her voice
becoming harsh. “Just go to your room.”
Sara’s eyes filled with tears and she turned and ran down the hallway.
“Aren’t you being tough on her?” Andrew asked.
“Don’t tell me how to handle my daughter,” B.B. said, slamming the door in his face.
B.B. went to her room, took off her clothes, got back into bed, and didn’t get up until the next morning, not realizing until she began to run that she hadn’t eaten anything yesterday—and now she was so weak she could only go a mile.
This was no good. None of it was any good. She could feel herself losing control. Her hair was shedding in the shower. The bottoms of her feet alternately itched, then burned. She continued to lose weight.
The weight loss had started over the summer. She had assumed it was the worry of Andrew coming to town. She had always had trouble eating during times of stress. For weeks she had lived on only farina and dried apricots. To clear her mind she had started to run four, five, sometimes six miles a day. With Sara away at camp she had thrown herself completely into business matters and community projects. But instead of her usually innovative ideas, she drew blanks at meeting after meeting. People asked her if she was feeling all right.
In mid-July she had taken a week off to go out to San Diego to visit Sara at camp. She stayed at La Costa, sure that a week of pampering would relax her. On her first day there she took a tennis lesson from a craggy-faced but still handsome pro who told her she was the most gorgeous thing he’d seen all summer. He was impressed by her sure, firm strokes as well. They spent the night together, but he was a disappointing lover, fast and hard, with no interest in foreplay. Afterwards he said, “Nice, babe . . .” the same way he’d said it on the court. Then he rolled over and was out cold, snoring and farting in his sleep. She was relieved when at five a.m., he left.
The next night, her fortieth birthday, she dressed in white chiffon and had dinner by herself in the main dining room. When she was a child birthday parties meant black patent leather shoes, ribbons in her hair, and Dixie Cups and then, when she opened her Dixie and licked the ice cream off the inside of the lid, she would find a movie star’s picture. One time she had found Lassie’s picture and all the other children at the party begged her to trade with them, but she wouldn’t, So they’d teased her, calling her Skinny and Red and Freckle-face, and she had cried, but she hadn’t given up Lassie’s picture.
